the winds are dusty tonight, love
by lefiner
Summary: "'Sometimes," he actually smiles at her over the lip of his glass, "drunk words are just sober thought in disguise.'" Wild West AU.
1. pitié, pitié

The saloon stands against the painted sunset like a carving in the sky. Éponine's eyes remain trained on it, doing her best to purposefully not look towards the boss, who would just sneer and tell her to pay attention. There are four of them standing in the desert town. Their fifth is inside the saloon, drinking the way he always does. It is what he does best, after all.

Bahorel sneaks up behind Éponine and taps her shoulder. "You ready to go, Johnny?"

Éponine smiles at their strongest fighter. "You bet, Bahorel."

"Shut up, you two," Enjolras, 'the boss', hisses. Éponine rolls her eyes as far back as she can.

"Like it makes much of a difference, boss," she snorts. "it's not like they can hear us. If they can, it's not like they care."

"John—"

"Enjolras, he's right," Joly, their medic, points out. Enjolras huffs but keeps his own trap shut. He stares at the door as if it has done him a most grievous wrong. Bahorel stands close beside Éponine; ever since she quite nearly got bowled over when they ran their last job, he has been overly protective of her. Joly stands back, ready to run with a causality should they have one. _It will most likely be Grantaire if it is anyone, _Éponine thinks. _He'll fall flat on his face and knock himself out if the drink doesn't do it first. _

"Come on, Lorraine!" They hear the cue words very clearly from the swinging saloon door. The owner's daughter, a pretty little red-head named Lorraine, stumbles from the door, holding Grantaire with her. The two nearly fall over their own feet in their falsified drunkenness. As soon as they enter the shadows, they both stand up.

Enjolras leads their rag-tag group to the door, on the way pressing a kiss to Lorraine's freckled cheek and handing her a penny or two. She blushes sweetly and dances to the back entrance. In the meantime, Enjolras leads with Éponine and Bahorel on either side of him.

Éponine's hair is braided tightly under a wide-brimmed hat, and her shirt is baggy around her chest. Her trousers cling a little too much to her backside, and her feet and hands are small and feminine. Other than that, though, she can pass quite easily for a simple cowboy who took a wrong turn in life. Hell, Grantaire was the only one who knew her true identity.

So when they come into the smoky room, the barmaid immediately slides an arm through both Éponine and Enjolras's crooked arms. "How can I help you boys?" she looks down at Éponine, whose head comes to an unfortunate level that is the same as the woman's protruding breasts. The woman frowns at her, "Aren't you a little young to be drinkin' and whorin' around?"

"That's the thing, ma'am," Enjolras is cordial as he pulls away from her. He calmly draws the gun from its place tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. The barmaid gasps and stumbles away. The chattering in the tavern dies to gasps of fear and the pianist stops playing. Enjolras looks around cooly. "We're not here to drink."

"Well—" Éponine starts, but Bahorel hits her. Maybe her sassy mouth is not so useful during a job as she likes to think it is.

"Where is your boss?" He asks her. The gun is held steadily in his hand. The woman is distressed and crying too hard to answer. She has obviously never seen a gun before; she is the exact timed kind that Éponine's father used to bring to her parent's marital bed. Her mother would just turn away and wipe the hurt somewhere deep within her heart.

Éponine steps forward and smacks the woman as hard as she can. The maid stumbles to her bottom, staring up at Éponine in fear. At least she is not crying anymore. "Calm down, woman. Bring us to the owner of this shindig," Éponine commands.

The woman seems considerably calmer. She still gasps and cries, but it is less of a distressed sobbing. As Éponine and Enjolras follow her—Bahorel has their back—, Enjolras's hand on her elbow is a little too tight. Éponine winces; she must have taken it a touch too far.

They are lead to a back room, where the saloon owner stands with three men, all who are lined up with money. They look infuriated.

"I don't know where my slut of a daughter is!" The man is saying of Lorraine. Enjolras's pale, boyish cheeks are flushed with anger as he fires the gun into the ceiling. The crowd jumps and looks towards Enjolras, whose handgun is smoking.

"Give us all your savings," Enjolras is calm yet loud. "All your earnings, everything you've got." When he is particularly incensed, his deep Atlanta accent emerges. For Éponine, it is her French.

"Who are you?" The owner asks, even as he empties his pockets and gives the money to Bahorel, whose hands are open and waiting for the clink of change. Even when it comes, Bahorel's hand remains open until there is nothing left of the Saloon's money.

"I am the Chief," Enjolras sneers. His accent is strong enough that Éponine, even having such a deep understanding of this American language and its various sub-dialects, struggles to understand.

"Who's your little slave boy?" one of the men sneers. Bahorel's hand folds over the cash as he seems ready to attack the asker. Enjolras holds him back with a glance.

"Johnny's no slave," his regulated accent is back. "And I think you all owe me money,"

The men groan in protest. "You ain't got nothing against us," says the one who called Éponine a slave. "Just take it from him and let us on our merry way."

After a single shot from Enjolras's gun, he is not speaking anymore.

They leave after a successful night, emerging into the dusty desert night to find Grantaire drinking beside Lorraine. Enjolras tosses the girl a little sack of coins. She stares at it with an open mouth.

"Leave this place," Enjolras's voice is cold but kind. Lorraine nods hurriedly and leaves.

"So it was successful, Chief?" Grantaire asks. Enjolras does not reply. Instead, he looks to Joly.

"Joly—go get our horses. We're leaving tonight. I killed a man,"

"Enjolras, we talked about this, you've got to be more careful." Joly scolds. Enjolras snaps his head towards Éponine. For a moment, the taunt muscles in his neck glow with contained moonlight and his wild curls fall around his head like a golden halo.

"He called Johnny a slave boy,"

"Oh," Joly has nothing else to say to this, and runs off to grab their rides."

Éponine, thankful for Enjolras defending her, tries to tell him so. The thanks are heavy in her mouth, rolling off her tongue until Enjolras cuts her off with a swift cuff to the ear. Éponine's first reaction is to make sure that her hat stays on.

"_Merde!_ What was that for?" She asks. Enjolras seizes her shoulders and seems ready to shake her.

"_Never_ hit a woman in front of me again," he hisses.

Éponine rolls her eyes for what feels like the hundredth time that night. "Oh, right, I forgot. You have mommy issues."

"My mother had to whore herself out until she died to keep me alive," Enjolras spits. "I had to watch men hit her every night, some as young as you are. _Do not_ treat a woman with disrespect."

Éponine keeps her mouth shut. As Enjolras's beautiful form turns to face the approaching Joly, she thinks almost sadly, _it is a shame that you will never realize who I am. _

"We'll be at a trading post by dawn if we leave right now," Enjolras has lost his frustrated mother's boy emotion and is back to bossing their small crew around. "So make sure to wrap up. Grantaire," he looks with disgust at the man who, in his own way, is crucial to their missions, even if Enjolras never seems to realize it. "You may want to strap in. You've had too much to drink tonight,"

Grantaire, ignoring Enjolras, hoists himself up into the saddle without assistance. "It's my job, boss."

"Perhaps you ought to ease up on working, then," Enjolras can be downright sassy when he wishes to be, and it appears that this is most prominent tonight for whatever reason.

"That's rich coming from you," Éponine snorts. "Your job is your life,"

Enjolras coolly responds, "It's all I have left."


	2. l'eveque

**Wow! Thank you for the overwhelming amount of feedback! As I've just come from fictionpress, where the only reviews on my stories (with one or two exceptions) were advertizements, this is a huge surprise! So, thank you! and please keep them coming, if only to make up for people's neglection of my original stories :)**

**Also, my Eponine is based on Nickki M. James, the current casting in the broadway revival (not a huge fan of _any _of the cast members, other than Kyle Scatcliffe, but she looks really pretty with the Eponine rags on, which is a look not many can pull off). My Enjolras is pretty brick based, but with influences of Antonjolras and Aaronjolras. **

* * *

They do not make it to the trading post after all. It is not a single one of their faults, but Enjolras cannot help the horrible feeling of anger and disappointment when the sunset colors the sky that rests at their backs and there is still nothing but desert before the exhausted, beating hoofs of their horses.

"We'll have to stop. Any longer and our horses might give up on us," Joly says to Enjolras, who nods swiftly. He canters into a trot, and then trots to a stop, dimly aware of the rest of them stopping at a point close behind him. They follow everything he does; while it grants him an irresistible feeling of power, so it also places more stress on him. Sometimes he hates responsibility.

"We're going to stop here for the day," he tells his comrades. The youngest of them, little Johnny, frowns at the rising sun behind them.

"We could easily make it by noon, if we don't stop," he says. Enjolras frowns.

"We can't push the horses, Johnny. The poor things are nearly dead from exhaustion." Joly says calmly to the boy, who just grumbles about 'wasting time'.

"Well, we've got nearly no water in our canteens. Well, I don't know about you guys, but I have maybe a sip left. A sip is not nearly enough for a horse, let alone a horse _and_ me."

"He can have some of mine," Enjolras says stiffly. For whatever reason, he is sometimes uncomfortable around Johnny and his quick tongue and his pretty face. "I have plenty."

"Good," Grantaire smirks. His face is sunburned, despite their frequent night travels, and he winces when the corners of his mouth slyly slick into the burn. "I've only got whisky."

Bahorel laughs deeply and the sound seems to resonate through the desert. "The last thing we need is a drunk horse!"

"The last thing we need is a drunk _anyone_," Enjolras peers accusingly at Grantaire, who simply shrugs.

"Liquor is my lover, but she has the strength to weaken me," Grantaire says dramatically. Johnny smiles, amused. For whatever reason, this amusement frustrates Enjolras.

"Where did you hear that?" A French accent just barely coats Johnny's light voice.

"Just made it up," Grantaire takes a step off of his horse. "What do you think?"

Enjolras butts in. "_I _think that we need to give these horses something to drink before they collapse."

Sure enough, Enjolras can feel the panting inhalations of his chestnut mare, and her tongue lolls from her mouth. He tries to ease away some of her tiredness with his hand, gently kneading her muscles. She does not react in the slightest.

"Well, if they're really about to collapse, shouldn't we get off of them?" Johnny's eyebrow is raised, and even then he smoothly swings off the horse, keeping the reins in his hand. His ride neighs at the loss of the weight, even though Johnny can hardly weigh all that much.

Enjolras grumbles, but Johnny is right. "Well, it is not as if I told you _not_ to get off your horse," he points out as he gracefully lands his boots in the dust. Grantaire, Joly, and Bahorel follow suit. "Shall we stop here? Are there any objections?"

"Yeah," Bahorel looks in the direction of the sun. The beaten desert path is painted gold. "We're too close to the road. I know this is a relatively unused route, but we should find _something_ that can kinda keep us from sight."

"I second," Joly says. He puts a skinny hand over his eyes and searches their surroundings. As he arguably has the best eyesight of the five of them, not a single protest is raised.

"Do you see anything?" Enjolras asks. Joly nods and points to a point way to the north.

"There's a collection of cacti there. We can make camp where there's water and a semblance of shade."

"Sounds like a deal to me," Johnny smiles.

Enjolras scowls.

~_toi, Ne désespère plus de lui dieu t'envoie ces présents du ciel recommence une autre vie_~

It does not take too long before soon the Texas sun is burning the air and setting the grains of desert alight. The world is no longer the silver it was in moonlight nor the painted gold it appeared during sunrise and sundown; it now is a dangerous, angry red that threatens to scorch with vengeance.

Enjolras sits watch first. The others have set up a tent of sorts that provides more shade than the short plants around them. A strange, tied-together nest of clothing spans over their sleeping heads as well as the sweaty shoulders and panting mouths of their beasts.

However, Enjolras dares the sun. His wide-brimmed hat, reminiscent of those belonging to cowboys, provides enough shade to render his fair face fairly protected. His hands have long since freckled, along with the hollows of his exposed collarbones.

He finds an almost sadistic joy in the evil heat of the open desert. It is burning, it is red, it is anger visualized. It is what he wants 'the Chief' to stand for. He wants to be presented as an avenging angel, an angry Apollo, anything that will get them known and their cause realized. He wants to help those who are too timid to help themselves. He wishes to end the racism and sexism that plagues their country. He wishes to free the poor from the grasping hands of their situation. He wants to knock the rich, like his snobby father, down several niches. To a certain extent, Enjolras craves anarchy.

A sound stirs the sleeping coolness that nips at his back. He turns to see Johnny looking at him with wide, dark eyes. The boy's hat is crooked, as if he did not think to take it off before sleeping. His full lips are parted and a flash of white teeth show.

"You're awake. Do you want to take watch?" Enjolras asks. Johnny shrugs narrow shoulders.

"Not particularly. Do you want some water?"

"That'd be nice." Enjolras admits. He spends a little too much time watching how the slender, brown arms fetch a canteen from deep within a bag. Johnny hands the container to him, and Enjolras greedily drinks, ignoring the water that cuts down the heat surrounding his skin. The water seems likely to boil in the sun.

He hands it back to Johnny, but the boy does not leave him alone. Johnny crawls out of the tent to sit beside Enjolras. He grumbles. "How do you stand this? It is as hot as…. As a stove-top out here."

"I like it," he says simply.

Johnny looks at Enjolras from under thick eyelashes. The youngest of them really is quite pretty, with feminine features and graceful slopes around his shoulders, neck, and cheekbones. He claims to be seventeen, but with his size and vocal range, Enjolras often doubts it.

"What do you want?" Enjolras snaps. Johnny winces.

"Sorry for disturbing you, _boss_," he quite nearly spits. He leaves Enjolras alone in the sun to grumble in the shade. Before long, Jonny has fallen asleep again with his head pressed into Bahorel's barrel chest.

Enjolras sometimes wonders why he is so cruel to those he cares about. Maybe he just wants to keep them at an arm's length, in case they hurt him too much when they fail to live up to his high expectations. Or maybe, as in the case of Grantaire, he wants to change them passive-aggressively without directly telling them that what they are doing is self destructive.

He has a lot to figure out about himself and about the world. He is still a child by many standards; hardly twenty-two and yet one of the most known outlaws in the west, second only to Thérnardier, the Haitian con who terrorizes the more southern territory. He has even more to figure out about his friends.

What on earth makes Joly so paranoid?

Why does Bahorel crave the bloodlust that comes with a brawler's life?

Why does Grantaire drink his potential away?

… Why is Johnny so obviously a woman in disguise?

Despite his best judgment, Enjolras drifts off to sleep, unaware of a specific comrade who helps him into the shade before taking his place on watch. When Enjolras wakes up at dusk, he has the dimmest memory of dark eyes set against the burning world outside of the daunting shade.


End file.
